THE GREAT LAROCHE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 247, 30 July 1937, Page 7

THE GREAT LAROCHE

| 2 £ By SYDNEY HORLER. g 5? 5

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CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE. From the moment that Peter Renton, watching the man closely, had seen the supposed military attache give lrim a wink, he had been on the alert. Consequently, he was not altogether surprised at the dramatic turn of events. His experience as a Secret Service Agent had told him that it was generally the totally unexpected that happened. And here, with sensation piling itself upon sensation, was yet another vivid verification of the fact. Being on the alert, he had prepared himself for any emergency. With this result: when Kuhn, his hideous face distorted by rage and astonishment, rushed forward with the obvious intention of avenging the insult that had been paid to his employer, Peter had thrust himself in the way of the gigantic negro and, in the absence of any other means of offence, had rammed his right knee violently into the coloured man’s stomach. Then, swerving aside, he had avoided the murderous knifethrust that the negro had made. Kuhn overbalanced and, before he could recover his footing, the bogus von Staltheim had discharged another “shot” of deadly ammonia gas into his face. With a moan, the negro collapsed. “Handy little thing this—people think it’s a fountain pen,” commented the man who had laid him low; “and now I have to give you my best thanks, Monsieur Renton.” The speaker had changed not only vocally but mentally and physically as he said the words. Here was a mastermasquerader. From a hard-boiled, typical Ronstadtian he had turned himself into a Parisian of the boulevards. “You must permit me now to introduce myself,” he went on. “I am Rene Jacquard of the French counterespionage. You look surprised! Ido not wonder—but there is no time to tell my story now. Later . . .” Then Jacquard turned to address the other two. “There is still much danger, I am i afraid—so we must be cautious,” he said in a low tone; “I do not know what is awaiting us above—but you must all, if you please, look as dejected as possible. Remember, you are supposed to be my prisoners; I am taking you back to Ronstadt, where you are to receive very rough treatment. Is it understood?” “Oh, monsieur!” breathed the girl. M. Jacquard frowned. “You are looking like a saint who has been saved from damnation—no, it will not do; put on a look of complete dejection, please!” “I will try.” “And now .” He pointed to the door. Moving cautiously, they found themselves at the bottom of the steps leading to the deck of the boat-house. The door of their former prison had been locked behind them. At the last moment a hand had reached—it seemed from Heaven itself—to rescue them from their peril. Was it to be wondered at that the hearts of the three captives were thudding as they started to cross the last barrier that lay between them and freedom. As the supposed von Staltheim—going first—reached the deck of the houseboat, a voice rang out: “Who is that?” “Silence, you fool!” thundered the masquerading military attache. “Hasn’t your master told you wno I am?” The other hesitated. “Those three are not supposed to leave the boat,” he expostulated. “Since you appear to have some doubt on the subject, go and > ask Herr Laroche—he is down there.” As the man turned to go, the speaker put up his hand and seized the fellow’s throat. A few seconds later the man collapsed on the deck. “I was taught that trick by a Japanese Communist,” remarked Jacquard —“but now me must hurry.” With the Frenchman guarding the rear, the little party safely reached the river-bank. Evidently Laroche had had so much confidence in his ability to deal with the situation single-handed that be had contented himself with taking only Kuhn into the prison room. The rest of his gang—with the exception, of the man on watch—had been allowed to enjoy their sleep. “What about your ear?” inquired Peter, remembering what Laroche had said “I brought two cars—the first to act as a ‘blind’ for the second,” was the chuckling reply. Jacquard smiled more expansively: “You see, monsieur, there will be no waiting.” As he spoke a huge car drove up out of the darkness, and the driver got down from his seat. “It all worked out very well, Monsieur Jacquard,” he stated. “Directly the canaille from the house-boat showed up, Pierre in the first car drove off as though the devil himself were behind. I myself waited as was arranged.” “Behold, the admirable Boncet,” exclaimed Jacquard, introducing the speaker to his three companions. “But now ” A minute later the high-powered car was eating up the miles between that lonely stretch of Hampshire and the Metropolis. * » * * During the first part of the journey Peter listened in an absorbed manner to the story that the French counterespionage agent-had to tell him. Apparently, Jacquard and the British agent Q. 23 were not only close personal friends but. had been working together on the Marve case. Acting on the instructions of his superiors, Jacquard had been keeping an eye on the inventor and, disguised, had actually accompanied Marve to England. When news of the amazing incident at Headford Cutting had drifted through to the rest of the passengers on the train, Jacquard had instantly realised what had happened. At this most interesting point, the Frenchman had broken off with a chuckle. “Go on,” encouraged Renton, but the other shook his head.

“I cannot tell you all my secrets, mon vieux,” he returned; and so Renton was left to conjecture exactly what had happened between the time that Jacquard had arrived in London and—so marvellously disguised as the Ronstadtian military attache—had turned up in the nick of time at that lonely houseboat on the River Hamble. Disappointed at not having all liis questions answered, Renton nevertheless derived some satisfaction from another source. This came from Elsie Norris. The girl had been sitting by his side during the talk between the French secret agent and himself, and before Jacquard had concluded his tale, Peter had felt a soft, warm hand slipping into his. He turned to look at her; she had the innocent expression of a child. “How can I ever thank you?” were the words that he heard. The touch of the girl’s fingers on his evoked a medley of confused emotions. He knew now what he had been endeavouring to shut out of his mind for some time; lie stood in considerable danger of falling in love with this girl whose presence in England had complicated so annoyingly the already complex situation. This was sheer madness—a fellow working in his job had no right to allow his thoughts to dwell on any girl—and, moreover, he foresaw that in the days ahead he would have need of all his faculties. He did not want these clouded by any extraneous worries. No sooner had he come to this decision, than the car commenced to pass through the outskirts of a small market town. “I must stop for a minute or two,” he told Jacquard. The Frenchman smiled. “You wish to telephone your headquarters, of course?” He nodded. “1 was going to suggest the same thing myself.” It took Peter several minutes to establish connection with Sir Harker Bellamy’s private office at Q.l, but directly he had done so, he was rewarded for his patience. “Yes?” growled the voice that he knew so well. “Chief,” he cried, “this is Renton. I have had a hell of a time—but everything is all right now.” “Thank God for that. 'Where’s Marve?” “He’s with me—l’m bringing him to London. There’s a Fernchman with us too—Jacquard.” He half expected Bellamy to snap at him, but no expression of criticism came to him over the wire. Instead: “Don’t care a damn who you’ve got with you—as long as you get here as quickly as possible. I’ve had half the Cabinet fuming handsprings to-night and I shan’t be sorry to get a little of my own back.” It was then that reter asked the question which had been trembling on his lips for some time. “Have you heard anything from Susan, sir?” “Susan? No! Why should I have heard anything of your sister?” Renton’s heart sank. No sooner was one terrible danger averted, than another awful possibility loomed ahead. If Bellamy had not heard from Sue then it meant that something had happened to his sister. Good God, what? Had she been captured between the house-boat and her Moth? “I’ll get back into the car, sir, and come as quickly as possible,” he told his chief. (To be continued.) The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.